The Badly Drawn Boy show was very good, but that's beside the point. The point itself is that the doorman at Hiro Ballroom is a big dumb idiot. I misplaced my driver's license a few months ago, and am always forgetting to bring my passport, unless I'm flying. But I'm 30, I have some grey hairs and my skin isn't as tight as it once was - I don't even expect to be carded anymore.

I explain to the doorman that I'm ID-free, tell him how old I am, apologize, and smile at him. He is *immediately* belligerent, genuinely grade-A disproportionately pissed off, as though I've done this to him on purpose and it's caused him great harm. "What year were you born?"

"1976," still smiling.

"How old are you??"

Uh. "Still 30."

"When did you turn 30???"

"July of 2006. I was born in July of 1976."

"You need ID!! What would you do if the cops stopped you on the street and demanded your ID? How would you prove who you are??"

Now I'm not smiling anymore. "Okay, when would the cops stop me in the street and demand my ID? They can't actually do that."

God knows who he's talking to at this point. "See, she's borderline. I can't tell how old she is."

I try smiling again. "Well, that's very flattering."

"It's not flattering if I don't let you in."

"No, it's still flattering, I just wouldn't get to see the show. Please, ask me anything." Here, I'm expecting 'when did you graduate high school' or 'who ran for president in '84' or anything intelligent, but instead:

"How old are you??"

"30."

"Fine, go in. But I'm not stamping your hand."

I'm suspended strangely - I lose my weekdays to the office and my weekends to constant travel, yet the weather barely changes, already halfway through October and still a mild, drab summer. It feels like one unbelievably long day. You think I've been remiss in updating the site, but it was only this morning, two weeks ago!

I wouldn't mind a change. The air swings by at a perpetual, comfortable 75 degrees. I get up every morning and go to work, I eat, I watch tv, I go to bed, I dream, I dream, repeat. The only difference from week to week is what I'm reading on the subway. I have the occasional excitement - some nice dinners out, some friends in, a concert here and there (the Shins last month, Badly Drawn Boy tomorrow, etc.) and my two new columns on UGO (here and here)- but maybe something bigger.

I don't know what. A drastic haircut? A pony? Time will tell, if it ever deigns to pass.

Good morning. I was awoken by a squirrel jumping on my head.

No, it's true. On my head. A squirrel.

It squeezed itself through a gap in the window, jumped on the back of my head, ran around the foot of the bed, ran around the floor, and crawled back out the window.

You'll all be happy to know that after it left and I stared out the window like an idiot, the first thing I actually said was, "Squirrel, what?"

Three Superlative Questions by Gwen, Three Characteristically Overlong Answers by Me:

1. If you could live in the universe of any book you've read, which would you choose?

Easy. The Handmaid's Tale; I look excellent in red and find free will burdensome.

I jest. Really, this one took me a few minutes. I cycled through a number of choices - first I considered the world of Harry Potter for its whimsical proper nouns and unique candies. The thing about Harry Potter's universe, despite all the wands and pumpkin juice and secretly large tents, is the impending wizard holocaust. It doesn't matter who wins - that is going to be one nasty mess, and I'm not looking to trade Bush for Voldemort. It's dangerous and disturbingly redundant.

Next, I considered the universe of Daddy-Long-Legs, a world of quaint attractive orphans, sisterly camaraderie, dashing handsome friends' uncles, and charming small hats. How I would love to eat maple syrup and hotcakes with my college chums, take long walks with them in our mid-calf-length "short skirts," carrying whacking sticks and engaging in bawdy talk of suitors, handsome friends' uncles, and having handsome friends' uncles as suitors. Then I remembered that 1912 had not yet seen the success of the women's suffrage movement. I have enough trouble dealing with the state of gender equality - or rather, the lack thereof - in 2006. I fear that a world where the senate couldn't quite decide about women having brains in their pretty little heads would send me into a fury, and I'd use my whacking stick in altogether too literal a manner. Though I'd make a feisty suffragette in my charming small hat, this one's out.

Finally, I decided on the universe in Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy. I am mesmerized by the fleeting familiarity of the foreign worlds, the landscapes, the loyalties, and bears in armor. I'll be honest, though. Mostly it comes down to the daemons. Say I have a soul inside all you want; I want mine to be a tiny fuzzy corporeal leopard, and I want to hold it all the time.

2. What do you like best about living in New York?

Availability - of movies before they get to the rest of the country, and movies that won't ever get to the rest of the country - of incredible food, knowing that there isn't just one Ethipioan restaurant here, there are so many that I have a first and second favorite - of major and minor music shows, every music act I can think of will get here eventually - of trees, if I need them. This is a place where you can see anything you want to see, do anything you can think to do.

Mostly, it's the food.

3. What's up with the sad state of women in comedy? Should we start an all (or mostly all) girl sketch troupe and take the world by storm or what?

What's up with the sad state of women in the media, period? It's a real punch in the gut when you consider how many more substantial opportunities a well-respected female actor had in 1985. Aren't we supposed to be getting better at this?

Comedy has never welcomed women. A conservative halfwit named Warren Bell wrote on National Review Online: "The funniest woman of all time in any aspect of [show]business probably doesn't crack the top ten of all-time funniest people." I believe it was John Belushi who claimed that women can't be funny - a sentiment echoed by a happily married, educated coworker when I first began working here. He has grudgingly admitted since then (and since knowing me - ha) that possibly, maybe, he was wrong.

Seriously, what? If you're like me - and you are - the women you know personally are hilarious. Not hilarious for girls - just plain fucking funny. Look at SNL, even; Sure, it's gone drastically, tragically downhill. But the strongest links, the ones who still make me laugh out loud, are all women. The first all-female SNL news team is arguably the best in the history of the show.

So yeah. It's a bunch of crap, what's going on. We really *should* have an all- or mostly-girl troupe and kick so much ass that the world can't deny us. I am willing to reconsider my visit to 1912 for that whacking stick if necessary.

Sweet jesus, y'all. I'm 30.

I suggested to my vulgar and irreverant coworker Chris that he name his upcoming baby "Live Nude Girls."

He laughed very hard and said,"You're our own little Sarah Silverman, but less funny."

I smiled and casually indicated a very sharp set of pliers I keep on my desk.

"I mean more funny."

I wrote a manifesto about my professional value and was well rewarded for the trouble. That's very nice, but it doesn't keep the boredom at bay. Sometimes one just lacks focus.

An IM from a moment ago:

[11:09] coworker-tod: I provoke bears.
[11:10] me: I am bears.
[11:10] coworker-tod: *poke*
[11:10] me: grah.
[11:10] me: grah.
[11:10] coworker-tod: success!
[11:10] me: well done indeed.
[11:10] coworker-tod: I didn't have a plan beyond that.
[11:11] me: all's well that ends well.

No doubt, your local news is running the same sort of inane story as my local news, CNN, and the New York Times. 6.6.6 - Is The Apocalypse Nigh? As your news sources surely tell you, you may go so far as to bet online, where odds are 100,000-to-1 that we'll survive the day, globally speaking.

What I want to know is why we're focusing on 06-06-2006. It has a bunch of extra numbers completely unrelated to devils, hells, and general nighness. The truth is this: the world did end on June Sixth, Anno Domini Six. There was one survivor, and the whole world is just the fever dream of a very old, very lonely man.

I triumph at work because I am the baddest badass this side of the Mississippi. And also the other side.

Saturday Adventure in Coney Island!

An American Haunting was 90 minutes of my life I'll never get back. That doesn't quell my indignation toward the man who not only neglected to turn off his phone during the movie, but took a call. TOOK A CALL. During the movie. Not in the hall. In the theater.

I'd say he was raised by wolves, but no wolf would teach her young to have such cheek. Or how to use a cell phone.

In response to my stifling writer's block, Lauren kindly offers motivation. Thus, once again, Three Awesome Questions by Lauren, Three Answers by Me:

1. If you were a Goonie... which one would you be and why? (You may not choose Chester Copperpot or any of the Fratelli gang. Goonies only.)

It's good that you specified, because my answer surely would have been One-Eyed Willy (due to my piracy and ocular handicaps) or Sloth (for obvious reasons). Confined to the Goonies themselves, I ask you this - are not each of us all of the Goonies in different proportions? Who among us is not hopeful and exuberant and slightly asthmatic? Deep down, aren't we all fat and Jewish? Show me one man who doesn't prance around helplessly in a letter sweater and tennis skirt!

Okay. I guess the answer is Mouth, on account of my boundless sensitivity and restraint. On that note, world, you look kind of pretty when your face isn't screwing it up.

2. Do you still respect me even though I don't watch 24 or Veronica Mars but am obsessed with a show about crab fishermen?

Frankly, I'm envious that you don't watch 24 - it frequently manipulates me into vicious enthusiasm for things I vehemently reject in the real world (torture, guns, sullen tech experts, etc.), and it's responsible for at least six of the eight heart attacks I've suffered since January. I deeply wish you would watch Veronica Mars, both because the ratings are low and I may die if it's not picked up for a third season, and because your happiness is paramount. Veronica Mars would make you happy. Veronica Mars can cure leprosy. Veronica Mars can bring dead birds back to life.

And really, I love you for watching a show about crab fishermen, even though they are killing our soft-belly brethren.

3. You and I find a scratch ticket worth 5k. We decide that, since you spotted it but I picked it up, we should share our winnings equally and use it for something we can do together. I suggest a trip somewhere exotic, first class. What should we do with the money?

Well, it's not outrageously exotic, but I have this strange, sad feeling I'm never going to go to Hawaii. I sense it will end up discarded from every would-be vacation plan I'll ever make when I'm married off and saddled with child. I think you and I could have a fine time with beaches and massages, food and excessively costly hotel rooms.

I would kill Scrappy-Doo with my bare hands if I ever had the chance.

This will come as a surprise to no one: when I was fourteen, I was a big dork. A spirited, quirky dork, but a dork all the same. My best friend Kat was a dork too, a wonderful scrawny oddball. We had strange rituals and stranger nicknames, a glossary of our own vocabulary, and a Troll collection with consituents named things like Azriel Enumclaw and Dernrit Dandy Campbell.

Nearly every Saturday night, Kat would come over to watch Twin Peaks and snack. We'd eat bread dipped in beef bouillon from a cube, because we were pigalettas, and Kat would usually sleep over. Later, we'd watch SNL to soak up chestnuts we'd repeat ad nauseum. One of our favorites (see above re: dorks) came from a sketch I can't now recall, but the phrase we adopted was "sucks donkeys."

We were among a generation that accused things of sucking as often as we breathed. It was just a word; I'd never spent half a moment considering the origin. Given the sort of fourteen-year-olds we were, I don't imagine we had any sort of image associated with this donkey-sucking - I suppose, if compelled, I might have described someone comically gnawing a hoof. I didn't have the slightest suspicion of indecency.

On holidays, my junior high school offered a service to further illuminate the friendless to the ruthless masses. The rest of us paid a dollar to sign a card for delivery to our various BFF in homeroom. The message I wrote to Kat that October 31st, 1990 was (see above again re: dork),"Happy Halloween, Kat-head. I hope it doesn't suck purple and yellow donkeys."

What savvy adult could read that message and mistake my tone as sophisticated or crass - as anything but overwhelmingly and pitifully dorky? And yet, some adult did - the savvy part is debatable. I was called into the vice principal's office that afternoon. He slammed the card I'd signed hours before on the desk between us and said, "Well? Do you have anything to say about this?"

I'd never been in that office in my life. I'd never been so much as tardy without a note. For the love of christ, my mom still packed my lunch and sometimes drew happy faces on it and I didn't mind. I looked at him, quivering and uncomprehending. He opened the card and gestured for me to read, which I did, though I knew exactly what I'd written. I said, terribly confused, "It's from Saturday Night Live," my voice raising the last syllable like I was asking him to confirm.

We stared at each other for an endless moment, and the realization dawned in sync. I'm sure our faces matched - my look of horror as I realized what my vice principal thought I'd written, and his, as he realized he'd just exposed the practice of sex with animals to a teenaged innocent. He mumbled something too quiet for me to hear - I assume something vice principled like "very well then" or "don't let it happen again" - and ushered me out of his office as fast as he could.

He never looked me in the eye again, though he rarely had the opportunity. I went back to my life of nerd purity, my love affair with "sucks donkeys" permanently extinguished (to be replaced with "in a van down by the river," or whatever we decided on next). But you can't unring a bell. Thanks to the vice principal of my junior high school, I will always know there are people who commit unspeakable acts upon farm animals. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if it were his fault I smoke so much crack.

Spring is being wishy-washy. It's bright and lovely out, but jacket weather clings to the mostly bare trees like a tragic, ill-fitting bathing suit. I want to embrace a new climate, to shed my skin or at least wear sandals. I defied the slow-blossoming season on Sunday at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. We sat on the grass in the Cherry Esplanade and pretended the cherry trees had done their work early. On the way home, we rode the carousel in Prospect Park. This was my horse, Nanny:

April is stupid and I hate it. I've just recovered from the worst stomach ailment the universe has ever known (at least the universe that is the size and shape of my own body) and I'm cranky and melancholy. Fie on April. It's for the birds, and not very nice birds either.

I have nothing more to say about April or anything else. Have a useless rhyming poem I wrote last year instead. I wrote it for Lillian, because he asked nicely.

I once met a wily young man
Who gave me a bird in a can.
I could scarce hear it sing
With an odd tinny ring
But I'm sure you could call me a fan.

I searched for a gift to return.
I offered a frog in an urn.
I said, "It just croaked."
He was pleased with my joke,
And so does this story adjourn.

Here's a clip of my own self singing karaoke. No one's saying I don't look a little creepy here, in all my night vision glory, but it sounds okay, and you can see me singing a country song with a total lack of irony. The Lupschada of the late '90s would love to come here and kick my ass soundly.

Perhaps you have heard of King George,
unreasonably fond of a gorge?
He was socially shunned
when he snatched out a bundt
from the mouth of his neighbor La Forge.

I went home last weekend to pack up the rest of my belongings, sell some various whatnots, say goodbye to my family home, say goodbye to my family, kiss the dogs, pet the cats, and fall down a flight of stairs. My family has lived in this excessively tall, mid-19th century brownstone for ten whole years, and not a one of us took advantage of the beautiful spiral staircase at the center of the house. It's like owning a pool table and never once playing a game - a mistake I made, in fact, every day between 1984 and 1986. I've learned my lesson, so I took this last opportunity to experience the staircase fully.

And experience it I did, each delighful corner of it, from landing to landing. I stepped out of my bedroom, lost my footing and tumbled down the stairs, rolling over my shoulder, ending splayed awkwardly two steps from the bottom. As I fell, I placidly considered my deep desire not to make my final exit this way; I was hoping for something courageous, or at least geriatric. A pratfall down the stairs is so undignified.

But I did not break my neck. Miraculously, I didn't break anything at all, and within ten minutes I was cleaned up and taking my grandmother to the doctor as planned, driving gingerly with a swollen ankle. I'm a real trouper. Three days later, this was my progress:

So goodbye, beautiful house. Goodbye, skin on my knees. May I see you both someday, a great many years from now, in heaven.

I am the most minor celebrity that ever lived!!

Thirstymonkeys have returned to the interweb at long last. Welcome back, monkeys.

I would love this essay even if it weren't partially about me, but it is, and it's always been my favorite. Read that and then read the rest of Scott's site, because it's awesome.